just hold a smile
by literary deviant
Summary: That's the thing about smiles. If you flash the right one, no one knows there's something more going on inside. / Five times Dick faked a smile and one time someone saw through it.


**Warning: **The fourth part of this references Nightwing #93, the issue where Tarantula rapes Dick. It could be slightly triggering. If you're not familiar with that issue, then you might want to read it, because the events from it are heavily mentioned and you might be confused otherwise.

* * *

_some things we don't talk about_

_rather live without_

_just hold a smile._

* * *

**1.**

Dick slips into the backseat of the car, and in the rearview mirror Alfred's eyes immediately zero in on his face.

"Dear Lord," the butler exclaims, with a miniscule widening of his eyes. "Master Richard, what _happened_?"

Dick sinks deeper into the leather seats, avoiding the man's gaze as he resists the urge to reach up and touch his rapidly blackening eye. Sunlight shines through the windows, bringing the dark splotches on his face into sharp contrast and erasing any lingering notion that they may go unnoticed. He ducks his head under the unwanted attention.

"It's nothing, Alfred, really." There's a nasty split in his bottom lip, and when he speaks it reopens and bleeds. "Just a couple bruises. Nothing to worry about."

"Well, I do worry," he says, voice sharp with concern the way it is when Bruce has been in the cave too long and refuses to take a rest. "Who gave it to you?"

"No one. I fell over."

He knows it's ridiculous as soon as it leaves his mouth, and clearly Alfred does as well if his expression is anything to go by. One of his eyebrows goes up in the mirror, and Dick fidgets under the scrutiny.

"Fine. Marco Hollington punched me in the face," he admits, unable to stand being subjected to The Look™ for any longer. He pulls his lip between his teeth, then releases it when the sharp spark of pain reminds him he split it.

"Don't tell Bruce," he begs Alfred.

The eyebrow raises higher on the butler's forehead. "Is there a reason he should be informed?"

"No!" says Dick quickly, then winces. "I mean – it's not a problem, Alfie. Just a stupid fight, it barely hurts. I've had way worse as Robin. "

_Bruce will probably assume that's where I got it anyway,_ he thinks. _If he even notices at all._

Dick chides himself at the thought. He's not being fair. Bruce is a busy man, and between being Batman and playing socialite for the cameras, he doesn't have time to be coddling anyone. Dick is Robin, and Bruce expects him to handle himself.

In the mirror, Alfred shakes his head. "That is not altogether reassuring," he replies, but he shifts the car into drive as he pulls away from the school.

Dick forces a smile where one usually forms automatically. Alfred seems reassured; boys will be boys, after all, and he knows Dick can take care of himself. He goes toe-to-toe with fully grown criminals on a nightly basis, a twelve-year-old kid with a chip on his shoulder isn't going to phase him.

He doesn't tell him about the dark bruises beneath his clothes, some only now just forming and others faint and fading from days, even weeks ago; violent marks on his body that didn't come from crime-fighting, but instead came from being slammed roughly against a row of lockers, from Marco's foot colliding with his ribs, staining his pristine uniform with dirt. He doesn't tell him about the barrage of verbal assaults thrown his way, words like _orphan, circus brat, gypsy, charity case_ that land harder than any physical blow.

He doesn't tell because while he may be an orphan and circus brat, he's nobody's charity case, and he most certainly won't be anyone's _problem_. He doesn't need Alfred to worry and he doesn't need Bruce to fight his battles for him. He's _Robin_, sidekick to the Dark Knight himself; he's looked the Joker in the eye with a smile on his face and a pun on his tongue. He can handle a run-of-the-mill bully.

Alfred makes a turn at the light ahead, and glances briefly again at the bruise on Dick's face. "I hope you at least managed to pop him back," he says.

He smiles and tells Alfred again not to worry, even as his entire body aches from a beating not given to him on patrol, as taunts of _orphan_ and _pathetic_ and _you really think Wayne __wants__ you_ ring in his brain and cause his chest to feel tight. He smiles, and he keeps smiling all the way home.

Smiling is simple. Smiling is easy.

Everybody believes a smile.

* * *

**2.**

Dick dreams of bodies falling. He dreams of the loud snap of wire, his mother's reaching fingers brushing his. He dreams of an empty trapeze swinging, the audience screaming.

"_Me mangav tut,"_ his mother tells him. _"My little Robin."_

He wakes with ghosts in his heart and tears on his cheeks. His mind is haunted by the sounds their bodies made as they struck the ground—the harsh crunch of bone, the haunting silence that lingered in the air after, before the screaming started. He turns his face into his pillow, fighting back his tears.

_Mom,_ he thinks, choking back his sobs. _Dad._

It's been exactly six years since they died.

The fourteen-year-old turns around, laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. He takes slow, even breaths, the way that Bruce taught him, and tries to calm down. He's too old for this.

_You're Robin_, he reminds himself. But where on any other day it would have been an assurance, now it only serves to double his grief, because that was what she called him. That was her name for him.

"_My sweet little Robin," _she used to whisper. _"You were always meant to soar."_

Their contorted, broken bodies flash before his eyes. His mother's spine snapped, his father's neck twisted. He watches them fall through the air, no net to catch them, and he hears an echo of a scream in his memory. _His_ scream.

Dick closes his eyes shut and breathes deeply. He opens them again when his lungs stop feeling like they're being strangled. He stares up at the white ceiling for a long time.

_Get up,_ he tells himself, trying to push the bone-aching sadness from his limbs. _Get up!_

The sadness only sinks deeper, wraps around his bones and curls between his ribs, sinking into his heart. Dick forces himself to breathe past it. He pushes himself up.

Today is a school day.

Getting dressed and dragging himself downstairs is a Herculean task. He feels like hundred-pound weights are attached to his limbs. His body doesn't feel like his body, but rather, a heavy weight that's been attached to him, that he is forced to lug around.

He's _tired_.

Still, he smiles when he goes down the stairs. When Alfred greets him in the kitchen, Dick greets him back, telling him good morning. He can tell immediately, by the careful way Alfred looks at him, that the butler is aware of the date. As Dick makes conversation, he makes sure to remain upbeat, but not _too_ upbeat, otherwise the act will be obvious.

"Where's Bruce?" he asks, as he digs into his bowl of sugary cornflakes.

"Master Bruce had to take off early today, I'm afraid," Alfred replies. "Mr. Fox called, and apparently there were some urgent matters that required his attention. But he's promised to still pick you up today."

Dick nods, looking down at the table, and doesn't show his doubt. He and Bruce always visit his parents at the cemetery on this day. But things between him and his guardian have been strained lately, and Dick worries he might have forgotten. They've been arguing a lot recently, not just as Batman and Robin, but as Bruce and Dick as well. Bruce has been so distant these last few months, and a lot of the things they used to do together have fallen to the wayside.

Bruce's presence only grows scarcer. And the shadow of the Bat only grows larger, looming over him completely.

"He'll be there, Master Dick," Alfred tells him. "Nothing is more important to him than you are."

Dick forces the shadow from his eyes, forcing his lips into the shape of a smile. "I know, Alfred," he says. "I'm okay. You don't need to worry about me."

The butler watches him closely for a moment, then he nods, reassured. Dick doesn't let the smile drop, and he keeps it plastered to his face all day, regardless of the way the grief tears at his chest.

"Are you okay?" Barbara asks him at lunch that day. She reaches out to place a hand on his arm. She doesn't know what day it is. "You look tired."

He turns up the smile and charm, makes a flirty quip about how he didn't realize she paid him so much attention, _should I be honored_? She scoffs at him, muttering his name like something foul, and Dick relaxes. He keeps his grin, doesn't let it drop.

Bruce doesn't show up at the end of the day. Instead, Alfred is waiting with the car, full of secondhand apologies and excuses.

"He truly is sorry, Master Richard," Alfred says.

Dick smiles. "That's okay," he responds. "I understand."

Alfred believes him immediately. And why shouldn't he? The truth is in his smile, after all.

_That's the thing about smiles,_ Dick thinks. _If you flash the right one, no one knows there's something more going on inside._

* * *

**3.**

"Hey, rookie! Look alive!"

Dick startles at the voice, his knee jerking and colliding painfully with the dashboard. He swears under his breath as his eyes snap open, and Amy pulls open the driver-side door, sliding into her seat.

"Falling asleep on the job, Grayson?" she asks, as she places her coffee in the cupholder between them. "Careful. It doesn't paint the best impression."

Dick shakes the remaining drowsiness from his brain. He straightens in his seat, focusing on his partner. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't get the best sleep last night."

"I hear you," she responds, "but that's still no excuse. What if this had been a serious stakeout?"

Dick winces and apologizes again. Three weeks on the job, and he hasn't exactly endeared himself to his partner. Normally, he would make more of an effort, but today he feels too tired to bother. His entire body is weighed down.

Amy pauses in putting her seatbelt on, looking at him with sharp eyes. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back into a loose bun, her uniform expertly pressed. She looks calm and professional, and compared to her, Dick feels like Bruce after three all-nighters.

Basically, he feels like shit. Probably looks like it, too.

"But seriously," Amy says. "What's up? I don't think I've ever seen you look anything but perfect, even this early in the morning."

"You flatter me. What would your husband think?"

Amy narrows her eyes with a glare. She never appreciates his humor.

"_Grayson_. Level with me for once. Are you okay?"

And in that moment, Dick nearly tells her the truth. He's tempted to, when she's looking at him like that, clear concern in her eyes, and Dick feels his composure falter for a second. The weight on his shoulders is so unbearably heavy, and for a moment, he thinks of letting someone see it.

_No,_ he thinks about telling her. _I'm fucking terrible. I'm a terrible boyfriend, a terrible friend, a terrible brother, a terrible son. My girlfriend is avoiding me, my best friend hates me, my father disapproves of everything I do and everything I am, and to top it all off, today is my dead brother's birthday._

He smiles. "I'm fine," he says instead.

_I'm fine. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine._ Those words should be written on his tombstone.

The memory of Jason weighs him down like lead. He feels like Superman surrounded by a mountain of Kryptonite. His body is a raw nerve today; like there's no skin over his pain and it bleeds whenever the wind blows.

He wasn't there. He wasn't there, and he should have been.

_I'm so sorry, Jason._

Dick remembers how they were in the beginning—what an ass he was. Projecting his own issues with Bruce onto the new kid wearing his parents' colors, when he hadn't done anything to warrant such ill treatment.

The smile when they first met. The admiration in his eyes. _"It's no big deal! We'll just locate their new digs and bust them together!"_

"_Wrong!"_ Dick snapped back at him, causing that grin to falter. _"I'll locate the lab myself! You're going home to tell Batman how you screwed up__tonight!"_

He wasn't there for him. And when he finally realized that, it was too late to make amends.

"Are you sure?" Amy asks him, snapping him out of his thoughts. "If something is wrong—"

"I'm fine," Dick repeats—struggles to banish the image of Jason's grinning face. "Really."

"I know I like to rag on you a lot," she says. "But you're my partner. I _do_ care about you. Not just because it's my job, either. You're a good person and a good cop. We don't have many of those in Blüdhaven. So if something is the matter… I hope you know that you can share it with me."

Dick blinks at her. He's incredibly warmed by the words, and he doesn't know how to respond. She's probably the only person who believes such things about him—and that's only because she doesn't know him. If she did…

Jason's face flashes in front of his eyes. He remembers fighting for his life inside of Arkham, remembers the horrifying visions that haunted him after being exposed to Scarecrow's fear toxin.

"_You didn't come, Dick,"_ Jason had said to him. _"I waited and waited for you to come. But you never did. You promised to be there, remember?"_

Dick does remember. Standing on a rooftop in Blüdhaven, holding out a slip of paper with his number on it. Telling Jason to call whenever he wanted. Promising that if he ever needed anything—

_He needed me. He needed me, and I wasn't there._

Dick smiles. "I'm okay," he says. He leans back in his seat, hands behind his head. He allows a roguish glint to enter his eyes. "Just wondering when the real police work is going to start. This kiddie stuff is getting old…"

"Well, deal with it. You can't expect—_dammit,_ _Grayson! Get your feet off my dashboard_!"

* * *

**4\. **

"_Do you like being alone, Dick?" _

The words slice through his brain with the same force the bullet sliced through Blockbuster's skull.

"_I'll make sure you can't save any of them."_

The Batcave is empty, and he is surrounded by silence. The only noise is his shallow breathing and the sound of his fist connecting with one of the training dummies. He stares ahead, not really seeing.

The cave is quiet. Inside his head is deafening.

"_That's the secret, the essential truth of your nature."_

He adjusts his stance and sends a high kick toward the dummy's head. His pulse pounds in his ears, and the words swim tantalizingly in front of his face.

"_You could take every beating I could dish out. You might even enjoy them."_

The sound of a gunshot reverberates through his head. The smell of gunpowder and jasmine perfume. Concrete digs into his back, and he feels cold rain on his face. He takes a swing at the dummy. His hands are shaking.

"_You have absolutely no regard for your personal safety. But the people around you… that's a different matter."_

He swings at the dummy. Again. Again. With each punch, the driving force behind it grows stronger. Tarantula's face flashes in front of his eyes; Roland Desmond with his brains blown out, spilling over the floor.

"_And that's how I'll take you apart. Loved one by loved one, innocent by innocent…"_

His vision goes fuzzy. He aims a kick at the training dummy's sternum, but his coordination is completely screwed, so he misses and stumbles.

"_It will never stop."_

His chest feels tight, like he can't breathe. His breath sounds too fast in his ears.

"_It's never going to stop."_

He can see Tarantula aiming the barrel of the gun. He feels himself let go of Blockbuster and step back –

"Hey. You want a moving partner to spar with?"

Dick halts his next punch, reaching a hand out to steady the dummy. His heart jumps at the voice, and he takes a moment to compose his expression before turning his head.

"Tim!" he greets, when he sees the young boy. "Hey! I didn't know you were here."

He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth, wishing he could snatch them back. Of course Tim is here. He lives here now. The adoption papers haven't officially gone through yet, but by the end of the week, he'll be Timothy Drake-Wayne.

_Nice going,_ Dick thinks to himself. _Remind him of his father's death some more, why don't you? What next, going to ask about his love life?_

Dick's been so consumed with his own issues since returning home to the manor—since dealing with the gang wars—that he hasn't taken the time to check in with his little brother. His little brother, who lost his father less than three weeks ago, and has now lost his girlfriend as well.

There's no excuse. And looking at him now, Dick can see how awful the kid looks. How had he failed to notice?

Dick's mind is overrun with his own issues. The sound of a gunshot—jasmine perfume—the patter of rain. He struggles to rise through the fog, giving his brother a smile.

"I swear," he says, "you're even quieter than B is. One of these days, I'm just gonna buy you a collar with a bell on it."

A shadow of a smile passes over Tim's face, though it doesn't relief the grief Dick can see there. "Might make my night job a bit difficult. So what do you say? Spar?"

Dick considers it for a moment, before agreeing. "Sure," he says. "I could use a break from my own head for a while."

Tim frowns slightly, but Dick falls into a fighting stance, beginning their spar before the younger boy can possibly question him on the comment. He throws himself into the fight wholeheartedly, allowing the adrenaline to flood him, to chase away the ghosts in his head.

Fighting like this had always been freeing. Not as much as flying, but it distracts him from his spiraling thoughts. Keeps him focused on the _now_, rather than miles away.

It works for a while. His mind is clear. But as it goes on, the ghosts creep back in. He hears the rain falling around him. The smell of gunpowder. There's blood on his hands, and Catalina is straddling him, her hand pushing down on his chest—

"_Quiet, mi amor…"_

Dick chokes on the memory of her perfume, cold lips pressed against his. The Batcave blurs for a moment, becoming a rooftop, rain against his face. He can't breathe.

"_He can't hurt us anymore. Baby, it's over…"_

Tim's foot connects hard with his chin. Dick gasps, stumbling as pain shoots through his jaw. Tim's eyes go wide in surprise.

"Shit! Are you okay?"

Dick rebalance, his hand going to his jaw. "It's… fine," he says, wincing at the pain when he speaks. _Damn. That's going to bruise._ "It was my fault."

Dick rubs his jaw for a few more moments, still shaking the remnants of memory from his mind. Tim still looks guilty when he says, "Well, I'm still sorry. What happened? It looked like you spaced out a bit. That's not like you."

"It was nothing. I just lost myself for a moment."

Tim looks at him with a seeking expression. Dick angles his face down, away from his eyes. Tim is an expert at reading people, almost on bar with Batman, and Dick doesn't doubt that one look at his face will alert the boy to just how _not okay_ he is.

So, Dick ducks his head and hides the shadows in his eyes. The ghosts in his mind. He hides it because he has to, because Tim is already drowning beneath the weight of his own burdens, he doesn't need to deal with Dick's as well.

He shouldn'thave to deal with Dick's issues. Dick should be able to deal with them by himself.

"Is it about Blockbuster?" Tim asks.

Dick nearly flinches at the name, memories bombarding him. A fist around his throat, blood in his mouth. _"It's never going to stop."_ Bang. Blood and brain matter splattering over the floor—

"Where did you hear that name?" he says, voice slightly sharper than he meant it to be.

"Bruce told me a bit about what happened." Tim pauses before continuing, "I heard about Haly's. And your apartment building. Dick, I'm sorry."

Dick remembers the smell of smoke. Amy standing in the rain, attempting to press his gun into his hand. The bullet shredding through the reporter's skull. Desmond—

"_Get out of the way, Nightwing."_

The air in the cave is thick. It's difficult to breathe.

"_All you have to do is get out of my way."_

"You know it's not your fault, right?" Tim says. "Dick, _none of it was your fault_."

Dick swallows and tastes the blood in his mouth. He feels the rain on his face, nails trailing down his chest. A single gunshot echoing in his brain.

"_It's never going to stop."_

And Dick smiles. He smiles, because if he doesn't then he's going to scream. "I know, Tim," he tells him. "Bruce already gave me the lecture. You don't need to worry about me."

A gunshot. Blood on his hands. Jasmine perfume. _"It's all alright, baby…"_

Dick snatches Tim's bo staff away from him, catching the boy off guard as he spins it, knocking Tim off his feet. Tim yelps in surprise as his back hits the mat, and Dick bends over him.

"What do you say?" he asks, and if his grin doesn't quite reach his eyes, then Tim isn't looking close enough to notice. "Care to go another round?"

* * *

**5.**

"You're not him."

Dick tries to keep his face blank, even knowing that Gordon can't see his expression beneath the cowl. He straightens his back, tightens his shoulders, hardens his jaw.

"I don't know what you—"

"You're not him," the Commissioner repeats. "He may not have trusted me enough to show me his face, but I _know_ the Batman, and you're not him, son."

Dick stands on the rooftop, the shining skylight just to his right, and the ache of his heart is like a rusty dagger twisting inside him. For a moment, he has a sudden desire to say the words _I am Batman_, to adapt that dark, gravelly tone Bruce always used when putting on the persona of the Bat.

_I am Batman. I am Justice. I am the Night._

He was always so _dramatic_.

The name Dick now wears clings to him like a shroud. _Bruce's_ shroud, from the funeral he never had. The cape and cowl feel too big for him, too _heavy_, and he feels the weight of them on his shoulders. He feels like Atlas, holding the entire sky on his back.

Dick doesn't want to be Batman. He _never_ wanted to be Batman.

But somebody has to be.

Dick doesn't respond to Gordon's words. His heart feels too heavy, too despaired. He is draped in Bruce's uniform, his _legacy_, and he can't breathe right with it on. It was never meant to be his.

It's different from slipping off the Robin costume and sliding into the Nightwing one. Batman isn't a uniform, isn't a job. Batman is a _life_, and it digs its claws into your soul, steals tiny pieces of yourself from you.

_God, Bruce. How did you bear it?_

Gordon takes his silence as confirmation. Grief passes over his face. He knows just as well as Dick does that the Batman would never hang up his cape. That there's only one reason why someone else would be wearing it.

"Which one are you, then?" he asks after a moment. His tone is heavier now. "You're one of his aren't you?"

Dick pauses before answering. Despite not knowing their civilian identities, Jim Gordon is a close friend. He knows them well. He's been there from the very beginning, since before Dick even donned the tights and pixie boots. He's watched all the variations of Robin through the years—watched one grow up and graduate from the position, spreading his wings in a city of his own. Watched another take up the mantle and then be stolen away. He's watched the third step up to fill the void the second left, making the role his own in a way none of the others have.

Jim Gordon has watched them through the years. He may not know their names, but he knows _them_.

"Nightwing," Dick finally responds. The name catches in his throat, the same way Bruce's does.

Gordon nods. "I thought so," he says. "I don't know what happened, but… I'm sorry for your loss, kid. The Bat was a great man."

Dick is finding it hard to breathe. His chest constricts. "He was."

"Are you going to be okay, son?" the Commissioner asks.

Dick doesn't smile when he responds, but only because he's Batman. Batman doesn't smile.

"Of course," he lies. "_I'm Batman_."

When he makes it back to the Batcave, he tears the cowl from his face and throws it across the room. He falls into the chair in front of the computer, then he buries his face in his hands. He fights back his tears.

Later, Damian comes down and squints at him with sharp eyes. He asks Dick if he's okay.

Dick smiles and tells him he's fine.

* * *

**+1.**

Dick Grayson lies all the time. It's one of the first things she noticed upon meeting him. The way his every smile seemed painted on, how the expression on his face very rarely reached his eyes. No one else seems to see it, because they don't see things the way she does. They rely too much on words. But she looks beyond that. She looks beyond that, and she sees the truth that no one else does.

_Dick Grayson is a liar._

Dick looks over at her, the two of them standing close together in the Batcave. He flashes her his signature smile.

"I'm fine," he tells her.

Tapping her foot, Cassandra looks over her brother expectantly. "No," she says firmly. "Not fine. Not fine… _at all_."

Dick smiles again. Not genuine. It's a practiced curve of his lips, his shoulders trained to relax. His eyes avoid hers, and his foot shifts back. His legs want to run.

"What? These?" He flashes his teeth as he waves at the bandages compressing his ribs. His tone is light. "This is nothing. We fight with worse than this all the time."

"No," Cassandra says, and frowns. She wonders if she's saying it wrong, wonders if she's expressing herself incorrectly or if Dick is deliberately ignoring her meaning. "_Not_… what I mean. Not fine… in _here_."

Cassandra taps at her chest, over her heart. Dick's expression, his _smile_, becomes fixed.

"I don't know what you mean," he says.

(_Dick Grayson is a liar._)

Cassandra looks at her brother with a frown—looks at the smile still pulling at his lips. Smiling, smiling, smiling, _always_. It's the most heartbreaking lie she's ever seen, and she wants him to stop it.

Slowly, she brings her hand up to touch the edge of Dick's mouth, where the lie still creases his skin. Dick blinks in surprise at the contact.

"This smile," Cassandra says. She lets her hand drop back to her side. "Ever real?"

Dick stares at her for a long moment. The smile has fallen from his lips now, replaced by uncertainty. "I don't know what you mean," he repeats.

Cassandra presses her lips together. "Not fine," she repeats. "Not okay." She pauses, searching for the right words to express herself. "That is… okay. That is… allowed."

Dick bites his bottom lip. "Cass—"

"Okay… to be sad," she says slowly. "You… take care… of us. But we take care of you."

She doesn't know if she's saying it right. If she's saying any of it right. The human language is so limited, and so many of the things that she feels are impossible for her to communicate through mere words. She loves her brother, hurts for him, wants him to know her feelings. She wants him to be… _free_? She isn't sure. Words are hard. Twisty.

"We… love you," Cassandra tells him. "So… be sad."

She doesn't think she said that right. But Dick seems to understand. He inhales sharply, and his breath is shaky. Fragile.

"I don't…" Dick swallows, his voice cracking. His eyes are gleaming slightly. "I can't…"

Cassandra recognizes that he is on the verge of tears. She hesitates for a moment, before stepping closer. She wraps her arms around him, placing her chin on his shoulder. She hugs him tightly.

Cassandra is not a tactile person. For so long, touch has meant only bad things for her. But Dick _is_ a tactile person. Touch is the way he speaks, the way he communicates, and it's what he needs. So Cassandra pushes her own discomfort away, lets herself relax.

"Love you," she repeats. "Take care of you. Okay?"

Dick hesitates for a moment. Then, his body slumps. His arms snake around her waist, hugging her back. He presses his face into her hair. His body shakes.

"I don't… I can't do this, anymore, Cass. It's too much, I can't…"

She feels his tears against her shoulder. Her heart aches.

"I'm not okay," he whispers. "I'm not okay."

"I know," Cassandra replies. "I see you, big brother."


End file.
